


Take The Shot.

by circlecross



Category: due South
Genre: Alaskan State Troopers, Mounties (RCMP)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 15:22:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10221278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circlecross/pseuds/circlecross
Summary: At the Annual Shoot-Out between the RCMP and the Alaskan State Troopers, Fraser realises that sometimes you have to take a shot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Robin. I hope she approves. I knew nothing about the shoot-out yesterday, so accuracy about the event is scanty. Just try and ignore the whole details thing... ;-)

The teams were alternately silent, alert, or manically garrulous. Both having been selected from remote outposts with three or fewer colleagues to talk to for months at a time, they were used to their own silence, yet suddenly aware of their simian need for company and co-operation. In the situation they found themselves in today, it was nervous chatter and camaraderie overriding the natural calm.  
The Annual Shoot-Out pitted old companionable rivalry, against new-comers eager to prove their worth. Scores to be settled, or records upheld.  
Ben cast his eyes over his team-mates, the group made up from G, V, and M divisions. He was alarmed to find that he was considered the “granddaddy” amongst these youths. It was true there was a dusting of silver in his thick black hair, but he still felt inside that he was a young scout. His various scars and wounds reminded him on cold days that time was hurtling by. Like a runaway horse. But it didn’t affect how he felt, nor, he told himself, how he could shoot.  
He frowned as some of the “Significant Others” laughed loudly about maintaining their unparalleled shooting records. That was one area he had no vested interest in, save the support of his team as a whole. He pinched the furrow over his nose, suddenly reminded of a scattering of females who had been possible contenders for that role…but…hadn’t been. For one reason or another. Which did not need exploring right now, he told himself.  
He cleared his throat, mentally shaking himself, and patted the unfamiliar holster holding his 9mm Smith and Wesson. He had checked and double checked it, and cleaned the mechanisms to his exacting standards, and familiarised himself with all its kicks and kinks. The harness felt strange around his body, but he had had to eschew his usual Sam Browne of the Review Order, for the modern flak jacket and kit belt of the everyday uniform.  
Both sides were in dark blue serge trousers, with gold strapping. The Alaska State Troopers were defined by their double narrow stripes compared to the RCMP’s broad one. Both sides sported long sleeved shirts, the Troopers easily identified with their sky blue with contrast cuffs. Ben nodded to some of them who nodded back, probably sizing the old fella up, he thought, then stopped himself again. Both sides were keen to review the route and range.  
Stetsons tipped, and the routes were finally released. Strategies were decided quickly, and marksmen despatched. Ben took his position opposite his target and slid the 9mm out of the holster. The flash of silver drew his eye as his team-mates unsheathed their weapons also. The graceful wooden handle curved into his palm and he deployed his round with ease.  
The next set of targets presented no problems either; he was finding his targets easily.  
The teams swapped weapons. Ben reluctantly surrendering his Smith and Wesson for the .40 caliber Glock of his opponent. He winced at the ugly blockiness of the Glock, but weighted it, and fired his round. Not quite as precise. He frowned, his hand flying to his eyebrow as one of his only outward displays of unsurety, but he noted that others had dropped points also with weaponry unfamiliar to them.  
The “Significant Others” round gave a mental and physical rest to the Marksmen, while scores were tallied and shoulders were rotated. Ben straightened his flak jacket. He felt he knew a little about why his father and Buck Frobisher stayed in the Force for so long, when in a civilian life they would have long been retired. He looked at the young constables. Had he ever looked that young in uniform? He watched a team-mate congratulate his Significant Other on her shooting triumph and felt a pang of longing – for the parents he had lost, for the shared lifestyle THEY had surrendered with HIS arrival, and for the near-misses he had had along the way for companionship. He felt it unlikely he would be able to settle with anyone now. Too used to his own company and too set in his ways. He had toyed with travelling the ice road between Inuvik and Toktoyuktuk, to see if there was still a travelling librarian. Just to feel the pain of nostalgia, to feel some connection. To feel…something. Anything.  
He shook himself again. The next challenge was a moving target. One member selected. One chance. The teams huddled. Ben looked along the barrel of his pistol. He had rarely used it in arrest, favouring tracking and surprise.   
The young constables turned to him.  
“We think you should take the honour, sir”, one of them said. Ben felt a rush of adrenaline – excitement or fear? He wasn’t sure. He showed no emotion however.  
“Thank you kindly”, he replied, hoping they hadn’t heard the tremor in his voice.  
The State Trooper had taken aim. The target had been clipped. Ben had to bring his target down to win.  
Velocity and trajections started crowding his brain, calculations and algorithms flooded his frontal lobes. He tried to focus, but an unfamiliar feeling of panic was starting to grip him. He must be getting old, he thought, this is what it feels like…This did not help his concentration.  
His hand trembled as he took aim.   
Suddenly, he heard a voice he knew couldn’t be there. The voice of Bob Fraser.  
“Son, you remember the shot I made that won your mother?”  
“The Great Yukon Double Douglas Fir Telescoping Bank Shot – of course, it is legendary. But…dad?”  
“Come one son, you can do it. Can you remember how I did it?”  
Ben nodded. It had been so simple.  
He closed his eyes.  
He fired.  
He opened his eyes.  
He turned around to face the right way, as everyone picked themselves up off the ground. He closed his eyes once more, after orienting himself, and fired again.  
He heard a clang as the bullet hit the target. A brace of heartbeats…  
Then a resounding cheer. He opened his eyes again, and found they were moist with tears. His team-mates were clapping and smiling widely. One came to shake his hand, and it sank in that he must have done it!   
He cast around to see if the ghost of his father were still there, but the craggy face of Bob Fraser was nowhere to be seen. Ben blinked his tears away. The Alaskan side were shaking h ands and slapping backs with the RCMP, and he knew he needed to join in with the celebrations.  
“We knew you could do it, sir. Your experience is renowned amongst the Force”, volunteered one young constable.  
Ben smiled. He felt very old, and very alone.  
A month later, leave having been secured, he boarded the light aircraft bound for Inuvik.


End file.
